devilish

As promised, I began my new recipe making on Monday night.  You may be noticing that it is Thursday right now.  Let's move on.

I perused my recipe folder* on Sunday night and decided on something called "Deviled Chicken Breasts."  Chicken is really the only meat that I eat regularly and I have a soft spot for Dijon mustard, so it sounded right up my alley.  During my lunch break on Monday, I picked up the ingredients that were missing, which included a bottle of Chardonnay that will play a significant role later on.

I left work at 6, already dreading having to make dinner when I got home.  I am starving.  My sink is filled with dirty dishes left over from the weekend (Saturday and Sunday are generally my no-doing-dishes days).  My freezer is full of frozen chicken products that I could easily throw in the microwave and eat, tempting me.  I envision a particular disappointed looking face and persevere.  Let's do this.

For some reason, I seem to be lacking very specific adult skills.  I don't know if it is because I didn't go to high school, or if I'm just an idiot.  For instance, I have no idea how to style my hair or apply makeup successfully.  I also cannot open wine bottles.  A week ago I was at Trader Joe's (purchasing the aforementioned frozen chicken products) and impulse bought a $2.99 corkscrew (and a 29cent chocolate bar).  I felt so adult, imagining all the bottles of wine I would open and pour for all my friends at dinner parties (false).  I confidently screwed it into the cork and attempted to press down to pull the cork out.  The edge of the bottle seemed so far away from the metal part of the corkscrew and it would not latch on.  The bottle and I struggled for a good 10 minutes, during which I sent a flurry of fevered text messages and cursed Joe for his cheap goods.  I had witnessed the opening of wine bottles hundreds of times by now, why is this so difficult?  It finally popped out (through methods unclear to me), and I could get on with it.

The rest of the preparation went relatively smoothly.  The only tip I have to offer you, is to not submerge hands with cuts on them into the mixture of wine and mustard.

* Before I moved, I wanted to cut down on the amount of stuff I had to bring with me, so I went through most of my recipe books and marked all the ones that sounded appealing.  I then created a document template and just plugged recipe after recipe in. I had grand ideas to print them all out and organize them in a binder, but only got about halfway through before I lost steam/was no longer unemployed.

Deviled Chicken
Adapted from: Healthy Cooking for Two
makes: 4 chicken breasts

• 4 chicken breasts
• 1/4 cup dijon mustard
• 1/4 cup dry white wine
• 1 tbsp olive oil 
• 1/2 tsp thyme
• hot sauce to taste
• 1/4 cup minced garlic
• 1 cup bread crumbs

1.  Preheat oven to 375°F.
2. In a small bowl, whisk together the mustard, wine, oil, thyme and hot sauce.  Stir in the shallots/onions.
3. Place the bread crumbs in a shallow dish.  Roll the chicken in the mustard mixture, then in the bread crumbs to coat.
4. Arrange in a single layer in the prepared pan and bake on the top shelf of the oven for 35-45 minutes, or until the crumb coating is browned and the juices run clear.

surprise french toast

Sometimes I get so excited by ideas that I don't really think them through before embarking on them. I woke up late on Sunday morning and decided it would be really great if I packed up all the ingredients for french toast and surprised Ian at his apartment. Sort of like delivery, except I make a mess and leave all the dirty dishes. About three quarters of the way to his apartment, it comes to my attention that I don't know how to make french toast. Why did I think this was a good idea? What if his cell phone is turned off? What if he's already eaten?  What if he's not home??

Cut to the kitchen and I am pretending that I know what I am doing. I have only made french toast once before and that was three years ago. I am trying to remember what happened all the times my mom made me breakfast on the weekends and it dawns on me that I was probably reading a book at the kitchen table, waiting for food to be delivered to my waiting mouth. I was livin' the dream. Being an adult sucks.

Needless to say, I do not have a recipe. I am winging it. This is happening. I try to get Ian to go watch TV while I fumble around his kitchen, burning the butter in the pan and hoping he isn't noticing. Is there even butter in french toast? What am I doing?

Sunday Surprise (as in, Surprise!  I don't know what I'm doing) French Toast
makes 4 slices

• 4 pieces of bread (in my case, stale)
• 1 large/extra large egg
• quick slug of milk
• cinnamon, to taste
• teaspoon of sugar
• some butter for the pan
• maple syrup

Beat egg in in a bowl (ideally) large enough to place a slice of bread.  Pour in an unmeasured slug of milk.  I am not sure what good this does, and I used skim milk.  Beat again.  At this point, I put the sugar and the cinnamon straight into the egg/milk mixture.  I was cooking for someone who enjoys cinnamon, so feel free to be as liberal with the sugar and cinnamon as you'd like.  The cinnamon will just sit on the top of the liquid, so you might need to add extra sprinkles of cinnamon in between bread dunkings. 
Now would be a good time to get out a frying pan and throw some butter over medium-low heat.  Dunk both sides of one slice of bread until saturated and place it on the pan once you've gotten up to temperature.  Flip when one side reaches golden brown.  Repeat with the remaining slices, making sure to butter in between slices.  Serve warm with maple syrup.

chips, ahoy

I had grand illusions about living alone and being able to take care of myself. It was going to be great; I'd make dinner every other night and pack the leftovers up for lunch at work the next day. All of those cookbooks and recipes I had collected over the past four years would finally be put to use. My coworkers would reap the benefits of my newly found love of cooking by feasting on cookies and fruited breads. Yes, it was going to be great.

Reality quickly set in after unpacking and rearranging my tiny studio kitchen. Right, I hated cooking. I have no usable counter tops. Suddenly bachelorette life wasn't looking so sweet when I had to carry 3 or 4 bags of groceries up the stairs to my apartment by myself while simultaneously trying to unlock the doors. By the time I get home from work at 6:30, making dinner is generally the last thing I want to think about. I suddenly found myself as that woman in the grocery store, piling frozen dinners and chocolate chip muffins into her cart, hoping no one would see her. Do I really need to marinate those chicken breasts? It takes only two minutes to microwave a handful of chicken nuggets and chug a can of Coke.

Fast forward to now. I have lived alone for about three months and have started dating someone who I'm pretty sure has a mild form of anosmia. This has allowed me to indulge all too frequently into my love of chicken nuggets and cookies. No one is here to keep track of how many cookies I've eaten in the bed. The need to impress with my culinary prowess is pretty low when you're with someone who can eat a three day old unrefrigerated pulled-pork sandwich. I've regressed so far as to being satisfied by eating handfuls of chips and a mini candy bar for lunch. I'm a mess.

I have started this blog in the hopes that it will kick start me into taking better care of myself. The plan is to attempt at least one new recipe a week. The plan is to spend less money, eat out less, and eat better. Do you know when the last time I had some vegetables was? I'm starting Monday. Until then, excuse me while I eat a bowl of pasta with a ripped up slice of cheese for dinner.